Three's Company?

I hear I'm getting a new roommate. Turns out, one of the wingmen is losing all his housemates to marriage. So when they asked him where he planned to live next, he told everybody he was moving in with me.

He said if I didn't go for that, he was just going to live in the back of my truck, to which his friend Chim responded, "it'd probably be weeks before she'd even notice."

I was initially dubious - then I realized I was being offered a second chance at life, a second chance at life on a sitcom.

He assures me, "wackiness will ensue" and I believe him.

Of course I think it would help our shot at syndication if he were gay, but I doubt he's going to change his orientation just to up our residuals.

I've had male roommates before - for most of college and grad school, in fact.

I liked it, because I never made them cry (the way I always seemed to with female roommates).

Not to be sexist, but it was my general experience that you could tell a guy that his dirty dishes were leading to the cockroach problem - whereas a girl would take that as a personal indictment of her character, friendship, and general worth as a human being (as opposed to the simple request for behavior modification that it really is).

Equally sexist, I observed that many guys will kill bugs for you, whereas very few girls will (though I did have one female best friend who would take spiders across the street to the park for me - where she would free them into the wild - which wasn't nearly far enough away to allay my arachnaphobia).

When I lived with guys, we invented the Magic Chair - where we threw all our clothes at the end of the day. Soon, the ones at the bottom were miraculously clean again. (Lots of girls wouldn't let you do that.)

My wingman's assets are obvious. For example, I've always wanted an entertainment center with speakers the size of Rhode Island - and all 20-something men come equipped with those.

He's also very tall, so he could get things off high shelves for me, and change lightbulbs in the ceiling fixtures. He's Catholic, so we could carpool to Mass.

We also went to the same school (albeit a decade apart), so the alumni office can save on postage. (When I picked up an award at our alma mater last fall, he was the only one who merited a shout-out from me - because he planted himself in the middle of the room, blocking everybody's view, taking pictures. (He then tried to get the rest of the alums to "head back to the podium for an all-star jam session," but no one would go for it.)

Also, he has a DVD player.

(And we have similar taste in movies. He's the rare buddy I can count for an evening of Made or Jay & Silent Bob but who's equally comfortable with something completely esoteric. Plus, I've noticed when we go to theatres, entire rows will get up and shift so as not to get stuck behind him).

I might not be nearly as well-equipped, electronically... but I can cook, which I think evens things out.

I'm not really sure where we'd put his light saber collection, but I know they're not going in the living room with the antiques I inherited from my great Aunt Etta. And I'm not too keen about him using my Stephen Powell blown glass vases as bookends for his comic book collection either.

In my dining room, I have (and I know this sounds crazy), a dining room table and 8 chairs. In his dining room, there's a big 70s style wooden bar, trimmed in naugahyde, and (I'm not 100 percent sure about this) some beer sign. Lack of chairs is not a problem because I suspect those guys eat most of their meals standing up, over the sink.

I don't really spend much time over there (mere blocks from my house), because it makes my "Mom" gene kick in.

For the last ball game/cookout he hosted, for example, I brought this lovely tray of assorted cheeses, water crackers, marinated asparagus, and strawberries. The trouble was, I couldn't find room for it on the card table, which was already occupied by 18 varieties of potato chips. And everyone who wasn't watching the game was playing "Hour of Power," (something to do with beer).

So I mostly stayed in the kitchen, washed dishes, and issued stern directives about how to avoid e-coli by NOT transferring the cooked hamburgers onto the RAW hamburger plate.

At dinner the other night, he and the rest of the guys were going on at some length about superheroes, and I told them a guy I'd been dating was utterly mystified by how they could occupy hours of discussion on this subject.

When they asked WHY I thought this was, I speculated that it might have something to do with him being a grownup - at the same moment my prospective roomie said, "MAN, right before you said that, I was just going to say we should all go toilet paper that guy's house!"

Right now, I'm trying to write a grad school recommendation for him that incorporates all his many directives, like, "please include the five orphans I adopted and the time I saved your entire staff from that sinking ship in the middle of Woodland Park Pool."

When I asked if he wanted me to throw in a story about June Apple, our favorite puppy rescue (whom we all insist was pitched from a speeding bike by a crack dealer right in front of our office), he embellished, "In reality, I comandeered a bicycle from a neighborhood kid and took off after the dealer. I found myself in the middle of a crack house... using fighting skills picked up from my extensive use of tae-bo tapes, I dispatched all of the evildoers and managed to burn some calories and get fit at the same time. When the drug lord swore vengeance and put a price on my head, I had to fake my own death with an assist from our friend the cop and some strawberry jelly."

All I know is, I'm supposed to learn about Playstation and an X Box before this move gets any further consideration.